Rachel Hoermann

Fresh From the Garden

she will not speak his name in front of me.
she shares his story,
gilding the saving of her mother only
to strangers who lack the context of his demon.

I slide into sepia summers, when
I would braid grass, hair over hair, over hair,
while she ripped cabbage from the garden
and warned me not to slam the screen door.

she encouraged silence then,
when roils of rage should have filled
every immaculate corner
shadowed and hallowed in divinity.

I do not place faith in her testimony.
her mantra and counteractions:
to be good is to be godly, and
godly equates to cleanliness and free carpentry.

How do you explain to a woman like that
that God lives in beads of rain on raspberries,
while the devil lives at the top of stairs;
not under them?